The Open Road
by alliwantistobreathe
Summary: Various drabbles concerning, obviously, the Lady and her Chauffeur. "We neither of us were made for settling. And I, at least, don't intend to."    A/N: it's finished, at last! last chapter FLUFFINESS warning.
1. Harem

"How _are_ we getting home today?" Mary asked, looking excessively bored after a full day of shopping, and attempting to shield her eyes from the hot afternoon sun. Sybil made no such efforts, tilting her face at the sky; she felt the few times a year it didn't rain in Yorkshire should be thoroughly enjoyed.

"Papa's sending the new chauffeur to get us," Edith replied wearily. So Taylor had started his teashop after all! How lovely for him. But a bit of a shame for Sybil - he'd been such a friendly soul! She barely glanced at the man who now opened the car door for her, too busy struggling with her many boxes and bags and trying to sweep her skirt elegantly out of the way before she stumbled.

"Careful there, milady," the chauffeur's warm hand closed around her elbow and raised her effortlessly into the seat by Mary. She had just enough time to register a startlingly blue gaze and a youthful grin before the door was closed and they were on their way, her mother and sisters chatting languidly about nothing in particular. Sybil mused on the difficulties of skirts combined with her natural tendency to gracelessness. Sometimes she wondered if only she could wear trousers… there'd be nothing to trip over… what a thought! But perhaps she _could_… nothing immodest of course... a picture bloomed in her imagination of herself as a lady in an Turkish harem, draped in loose silks as blue as the new chauffeur's eyes…


	2. Dinner Party

"Darling," Cora sidled up behind her youngest daughter, who was gazing in the mirror and trying to pinch some much-needed color back into her pale cheeks. She had been looking so tired lately. So very tired for only twenty-one.

"What is it?"

"We'll be entertaining the Edsons at dinner tonight. You remember; lovely people, an estate in Derbyshire, and their eldest has just returned from France. He was very honored there… I thought perhaps you two might _get along_." Sybil stiffened visibly; her hands froze, poised in the process of fixing her hair. Cora bit her lip and went on cautiously.

"Naturally, if you won't be able to handle another soldier –" Sybil's arms dropped to her lap.

"Mama," she interrupted. "I'm a nurse. I'm not worried about Lawrence Edson being a soldier."

"Alright. You know it would mean the world to your father and me if you would talk to him."

"And what will we talk about?" Sybil suddenly whirled around and focused her full attention on Cora, who was shocked by the intense passion she saw blazing in her daughter's eyes. "Will he ask me which books I am reading, or what my interests are? Will we discuss the direction of the English government in the aftermath of the war? How about the difficult situation facing working women? Or will it be about Papa's dogs, or fashion, or the season?"

"Darling, what –?" Cora cried, bewildered.

"Never mind." Sybil wilted like a flower, spirit draining from her face and her voice. Cora fled the room. Her heart was pounding; dimly, she wondered when exactly she had become afraid of her own daughters.


	3. Anarchy

"Absolutely I admire Emma Goldman. Simply for a woman to be so present in the political arena is heartening, but I cannot say I approve of the anarchist movement -"

"But don't you agree that government, as we've experienced it thus far, has done little to no good for the ordinary man?"

"So your solution is to do away with law and order? Do we then just _hope_ that human nature is moral enough to withstand the temptation?"

"No! Look, government in a capitalist society is by nature corrupt because the elite control it, and they get the money to do that by exploiting the poor. The best way to keep the corruption out is to keep the _money _out. And it's likely that'll mean dismantling all familiar forms of government. We have to separate the wealth from the power. That's what I'm getting at."

"Well-" Sybil paused, brow furrowed. Branson grinned.

"Have I struck you dumb, at last?" She laughed good-naturedly.

"I believe I'll need a few days to answer that. Truce for now?" At once, his smile vanished and his voice cooled.

"Certainly."

"Branson-?"

"We've arrived, milady," he said pointedly, and the car lurched to a stop.


	4. Whiskey

Late at night, Anna slipped out the kitchen door into the little courtyard. Her first day back at work since John had left; at least she hadn't burst into tears yet. She still spun around each time she heard the servants' door open, hoping ridiculously against hope he might've come to his senses. It dulled the pain somewhat to be here, in this corner, where he had promised to love her, and to cherish her; where he'd kissed her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she heard his voice.

But it wasn't his voice she was hearing. This voice was younger, angrier, and using language that would've made her blush if she hadn't grown up with three brothers and a foul-tempered father.

"You idiot," the voice muttered, "Bloody, bloody, stupid fool!" Anna's ears caught the trace of a lilting accent.

"Mr. Branson?" she asked quietly. Abruptly the mutters stopped, and the young chauffeur emerged from the shadows, clutching a bottle wrapped in brown paper.

"Anna…" he ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't know you were there." She surveyed him compassionately. Branson's jacket was unbuttoned, his hair mussed, and he looked very flushed, even in the dark.

"That's all right," she said, and motioned at the bottle. "Where did you get that?" He gave a rough laugh.

"I'm an Irishman, aren't I?" he said bitterly. "By definition a thieving drunkard."

"Oh," Anna looked at her feet, "I've known my share of thieving drunkards. They're not all bad." He looked uncomfortable.

"I suppose so," he said. "Um… I'm sorry." Anna felt her chin tremble, and knew the subject needing changing.

"Should you be drinking that? I know you've got the long ride to York tomorrow to pick up Lady Sybil…" Branson's face crumpled. He closed his eyes and took a deep draught from the bottle.

"That's exactly why I need it." Anna's heart skipped a beat. Oh, the poor boy… she had wondered. Anybody who chose could have seen him falling. It was only a matter of time before he landed hard.

"Did you tell her, Mr. Branson?" she asked tentatively. Branson choked in the midst of another swallow.

"Ah, please God," he cried. "Do they all know?" Anna shook her head and rested a hand on his arm. He was so earnest, so full of ideals and optimism and belief in the essential goodness of life. She felt a great deal more than a few years older than him.

"No, I doubt it," she soothed him. "Mrs. Hughes probably, and William's more perceptive than he looks, but Mrs. O'Brien couldn't or she'd have said, and Mr. Carson wouldn't recognize a secret love affair if it bit him on the nose!" Branson let out a long, whiskey-scented breath.

"It's no love affair."

"What do you mean?" And slowly, achingly, she prized the whole story out of him. Watching him go to pieces in front of her, his passion utterly spent in longing, Anna thought Lady Sybil must be the most unfeeling girl in all creation to have rejected him, and said as much.

"Don't say that, not about her," Branson said, miserably but firmly. Anna sighed.

"I should tell you to give up, but I can't. Not anymore. But… be kind to her. I think…" she gave him an appraising look. "I think you've got as good a chance as anybody, with that one." Branson went to take another sip and she pulled his wrist down, gently wresting the bottle from his grasp.

"You will be driving tomorrow, and if you crash that car with Lady Sybil in it, even if you're already dead her sisters will dig you up and murder you again. Best get to bed. I'll take care of this."

"What'll you do with it?" Anna fixed him with a flinty smile.

"We mustn't leave all the drinking and melancholy to your people," she answered. "A Yorkshire lass can feel just as deeply as an Irish one. Remember that."


	5. Novels

_A/N: I've never actually read the book Les Miserables, I'm going by the musical here. I usually hate doing that, but I did do some research and __have concluded that my opinions based on the musical still at least make sense for the book. Sorry if I offend anyone! I just dreamed up Branson saying that last line after the Ripon incident and had to write about_ _it. It's fanfiction anyway, no one's doing historical analysis on _my _writing. _

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><p>"I know you've told me you don't like novels much, but this one's got revolution thrown into the mix so you might at least appreciate <em>that<em>." Branson had never read much fiction. Real history was full of intrigue, gore, and romance enough for him. But listening to her rhapsodizing on her newest favorite, _Les Miserables_, he could readily believe novels were the only literature worth reading in the whole world.

"You know I don't speak French, milady," he warned her amusedly. Sybil waved an airy hand.

"I'm sure I can rustle up a copy in English in Papa's library. I have to have someone to share this with – Mary only ever reads the ancient classics, and Edith won't pick up anything more serious than Jane Austen."

"Is it a very serious book?" She considered, and said,

"Yes, very serious. Very sad. Full of ill-fated rebellion, and ill-advised romance."

"Well – suppose I might give it a try at least."

Two pairs of blue eyes found each other in the rear view mirror.

* * *

><p>On another drive a week or so later (Sybil was beginning to struggle finding purposes for these drives – but she'd a ready imagination, and plenty of motivation), he told her he'd made it just past halfway through the book.<p>

"And you're enjoying it?"

"More than I thought I would, yes."

"Who's your favorite character? I confess I'm rather in love with Marius – what?" Sybil thought she had heard him snort. He coughed loudly to cover himself.

"Sorry, it's just – well – he's a silly sod, isn't he? Sorry, language –" But she was laughing, fairly in spite of herself.

"You may think he's silly and frivolous, but I think he's romantic," she retorted. "And, oh, it's quite attractive for a man to be political." Branson started coughing again, almost choking this time. Abruptly Sybil realized what she'd said.

"Or," she said quickly, "perhaps it's the exotic quality of the foreigner about him." She watched him shift his shoulders uncomfortably, and remembered his distinct Irishness with a flood of heat to her cheeks.

"He's _French_, I mean," she said. "Of course."

"Of course," he replied.

* * *

><p>When next they spoke of the book it was five days after the incident at the Count. For the first time in a long while, silence reigned in the Renault.<p>

"I am terribly sorry, Branson," Sybil said after several miles, quiet and unusually subdued. "It was incredibly stupid of me to trick you like that. Was… was my father very angry?" He didn't respond for a minute. Then he picked up the novel from the passenger seat and passed it back to her.

"I finished it, finally," he said. "Overall good, bit slow in parts."

"I'm glad," Sybil managed a very small smile. "And have you chosen a favorite character?"

"Not really," he said, chuckling ruefully. "I suppose you still want to be Cosette with your Marius?" She scoffed.

"If you think I'd enjoy being a blushing damsel then you hardly know me at all," she said, teasingly. "I want to be Enjolras – vive la revolution, Branson!" He smiled a little.

"Just as long as you're not Eponine," he murmured to himself, but she heard it quite clearly.


	6. Cruel

_A/N:_ _I've always felt Thomas is misunderstood. Yeah, he's a bit of an asshole, but he's a complicated guy living in a complicated world. And I don't buy that he got over the Duke just like that_, _because there can't have been many men around willing to acknowledge and act on their __feelings like he and the Duke did. And that dude was hot. So anyway that's where this is coming from.  
><em>

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><p>Thomas saw him watching her from Nurse Crawley's very first day in the Ripon hospital. He should not be looking at her like that; no he should not, especially with the prying eyes of Isobel Crawley so close by. Sybil was having none of it, though. She kept herself busy right up until it was nearly dark and she <em>had<em> to drive home. Thomas was sure it was so she could avoid seeing him for as long as humanly possible. After weeks of catching tiny snippets of their terse exchanges, he was granted a boon while outside for a smoke. They were arguing heatedly, and seemed to care very little who was around to hear, if their inability to keep themselves quiet was anything to go by.

"Your father told me you're to come on time to dinner and he's not taking no for an answer tonight."

"If I must say it again, I will! I'm not leaving now! We've got an amputee, three men with severe shell shock and two more with gas-blindness. How can he expect me to drop everything and put on my pearls?"

"If I come back without you again, he'll blame me-"

"Don't be so dramatic, I don't understand –"

"You know he will! There are no second chances; I'm a step out of line away from the sack as it is. Course I don't suppose that'd inconvenience you any –"

"_Branson_," Sybil hissed, sounding close to tears. "It absolutely would. I could never - why do you have to be so cruel?"

"Me? Cruel?" Thomas heard a faint _whap_ping noise. He imagined the chauffeur slapping his cap against his thigh in frustration.

"Milady, you're the cruelest and most impossible woman I've ever met." Branson's voice was tender and devastating. There was nothing after that except a few sniffles and the crunch of gravel, so Thomas assumed Branson had succeeded in getting her into the car. Stamping out his cigarette, he wondered vaguely if O'Brien would be interested in all this. Then he decided quickly to say nothing. Her peculiar new devotion to Lady Grantham might will out, and she could very well give the pair away. And bugger him if he didn't want that. He wanted… more than anything, he wanted desperately to forget that he knew exactly how that Irish bastard felt.


	7. Sweetheart

The forceful knock on his cottage door made him leap up in surprise, absorbed as he had been in his evening reading.

"I'm coming, just a minute – Oh. Hello." For the door had swung open to reveal Lady Sybil, in a right state. He gaped for a second before she brandished a newspaper furiously in his face.

"Have you seen this?" she asked. "It's completely disgusting, the things they say about the suffragettes! And I quote, 'one is curious to know why the ladies are so intent upon rights for women when they are so obviously lacking in the feminine traits that would label them 'women' themselves.' They're simply being crude and vulgar now, I showed Gwen and she was as appalled as I am, I tell you – oh!" She seemed to suddenly realize where she was and what precisely she was doing. Dropping the newspaper on a nearby table, she said awkwardly,

"I seem to have interrupted you, Branson, I'm sorry, I wasn't even thinking…" He chuckled.

"Don't fret, you've not interrupted anything. I was just reading a letter from my sister." Her eyes lit up.

"How nice! I do remember Gwen saying you had sisters… I hope they're not anything like mine!"

"No, not at all," he replied, laughing as he imagined what Molly and Becky might have to say about the imperious Lady Mary, or the sour-faced Lady Edith. _And what would they say to this Crawley sister?_ _No - stop right there._ "My sisters are both older, married now. They may have a go at each other, but I suppose they always babied me a bit." Sybil smirked.

"Do you have any nieces or nephews?"

"A few."

"And do they call you Uncle Branson?" She snorted in a decidedly unladylike way and clapped a hand over her mouth. He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, I let Brian and Eileen climb all over me and call me Uncle. Satisfied? I told Gwen-"

"Is Gwen your sweetheart?" The words came out rushed and unsure. Branson felt a swell of pleasure in his gut and tried to shove it aside. _Don't flirt with her, _don't _flirt with her, you shouldn't even be friends, don't – _

"Why do you want to know?" _Dolt._

"Curiosity, that's all," she said, placing her hands on her slim hips defiantly. _God help me, does she know what she's doing?_

"We-ell," he drew out the syllable playfully. "Gwen's a lovely girl, but no. No, we're not sweethearts." Their eyes locked. Branson's breath hitched. He felt as though he might drown in her eyes, and never once attempt to save himself. Then Sybil backed slowly out the door.

"You should read that article," she said softly, and he watched her walk away until her colors bled into the twilight.


	8. Canada

Edith found her little sister exactly where she expected to: curled up like a kitten on an armchair in the library, lost in a weighty leather-bound tome. It looked like a law book, or perhaps economics. Sybil's cheeks were splotchy and red, but Edith couldn't be sure if she was angry or merely sad. It was difficult to say, these days. Mama and Papa were terribly concerned; they had no idea why their most good-humored, sensible daughter had taken to brooding and lurking in the library. Edith knew, of course, but telling her parents the truth would not ease their concerns whatsoever.

"Sybil," she said tentatively. "No one's seen you since breakfast." Sybil barely even glanced up.

"I've been busy," she said. Edith sighed and settled on the arm of her chair.

"You can't just keep moping about like this - "

"I'm not moping," Sybil said indignantly. "I'm trying to learn. About everything. I want to be ready… when he comes back." Edith clenched her jaw in annoyance.

"You're sure he will?" she asked, rather harshly. Sybil's eyes flashed.

"Yes. He loves me." Edith heard the reproach in her sister's voice and immediately felt sorry.

"Oh darling, yes, I only meant… do you love him? You said - you wanted to escape. You have to admit that this is certainly one way to go about it." Sybil squeezed her eyes shut and closed the book.

"I do love him," she said, half-desperately. "I wasn't sure, honestly I wasn't. I did think maybe I just wanted to get away, until…. we were driving back from the inn, and I realized he'd –" her voice broke just a little – "he'd never drive me home again." Then she seemed to swallow her tears.

"I will have him," she added, determined. "We will do this." Neither sister spoke for a while.

"Well then," Edith sighed suddenly, feeling a strange rush of pity shot through with envy. "At least you've avoided Mary's and my fate. You do have love, even if it is foolhardy."

"You did, too," Sybil said forcefully. "Edith… you let P. Gordon walk right out of our lives. My God, all of us – we just let things happen! But how can I make you understand – you don't have to! You're stronger than that, much stronger than you seem. Don't let them tell you differently.

"And you know what else? P. Gordon, whoever he was, he would have made a life with you, in Canada, far away from this quagmire of a house. He adored you; anyone could see that."

For a moment, Edith could see it too. P. Gordon, Patrick or Peter or whoever it was who had treated her like she _mattered_ would come back, a glowing smile making his burns hardly noticeable, and whisk her away to Canada, where they could be together and she could be happy, and she could be free_._ She shook her head to clear it.

"Did he, really? Or was I just a means to an end?" Sybil leaned over and rested her head affectionately on Edith's arm.

"How could he not love you?" she said. "How could anyone? Did you ever notice, Edith, how remarkably little you cared about Anthony Strallan's age? And you never even flinched at Patrick's burns. Not once. Your best trait is that you're much too consumed with your own imperfections to ever notice anyone else's."

"And yours, my dear," Edith said sadly, stroking Sybil's soft dark curls, "is that you obstinately believe people are better than they really are."


	9. Immobility

Booming, wailing, crashing, shrieks of dying men renting the air, rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns, the persistent buzzing of engines and aeroplanes mellowing into the quieter and much more harmonious sound of a woman, humming softly to herself. Matthew groaned and blinked rapidly, reorienting himself to the glaring lights and clean sheets of the hospital. Cool liquid trickled down his cheeks. Cousin Sybil was leaning over him, pressing a damp washcloth to his forehead.

"Matthew," she said brightly. "I'm so glad you're awake, I've been sponging you for nearly twenty minutes."

"Where's Mary?" he mumbled. The last time he'd awoken here, it had been her face he'd seen, her voice he'd heard calling him back from the depths of the trenches. Sybil pursed her lips.

"Back at the house," she replied. "We all thought she needed some rest. She's been with you night and day, and she's quite… fragile, of late." Sybil placed the washcloth in a bowl on the bedside table, and began carefully helping Matthew to raise his head and sit up. Everything still ached, he noted wryly. Each time he so much as wiggled a finger his arms lit on fire, and it felt as if someone was constantly dancing a flamenco on his back. The only completely pain-free parts were his legs, which was extremely disconcerting, as they were both covered with oozing scabs and half-healed burns.

"Sybil," he said quietly. "Will you tell me what's wrong with my legs? No one seems to be giving me a straight answer." Sybil's cheerful expression faltered.

"I can't, Matthew," she answered. "I wish I could. But I'm not the right person to tell you, and anyway I don't understand all of it. I'm sorry." Matthew avoided her searching eyes. He was no fool, feverish and delirious though he might be. He knew if they were all dancing around the subject like this, something was wrong. Something was irreparably wrong.

"Lavinia will be here tomorrow," Sybil told him earnestly. "I believe Edith's going to pick her up at the station." She was trying to shake him from his brooding, he knew, and doing it sweetly enough that he humored her.

"Will she be driving?" Matthew asked, almost smiling. "I believe I heard Branson was giving her lessons, although I can't tell how well they were going." Sybil looked strained for a moment. Then she said quickly,

"No, of course not. Branson will be driving, we can't entrust Edith's fledgling skills with such a precious burden!" She laughed once, uncomfortably. Matthew restrained himself from rolling his eyes, partly because he knew it would have been painful. Was he really so tragic a case that even friendly, sanguine Sybil couldn't laugh properly around him?

"Matthew," she said gravely. "Please tell me you're in love with Lavinia. That you're marrying her because you _love _her." He closed his eyes tightly and turned away from her. Why wouldn't everyone stop asking? Why should anyone suppose he didn't love Lavinia? _Why wasn't Mary here?_

"Yes," he replied sternly. "And you shouldn't take advantage of a wounded, immobile man to make personal inquiries." His eyes snapped open again at an icy cold wet feeling on the back of his neck. Sybil was glaring at him, but she removed the washcloth.

"I'm sorry," she said fiercely, "only I thought you and I were more alike. We neither of us were made for settling. And I, at least, don't intend to."


	10. Ladies

"Pretty, aren't they?" The new chauffeur had come to stand next to William as they watched the Crawleys bid goodbye to the night's guests. William was holding coats and assisting the gentlemen, and Branson, he assumed, was waiting for the Dowager Countess. Which might in fact take a while.

"Who's pretty?" he asked absently, brushing dust off some viscount's jacket.

"The Crawley girls," Branson said, chuckling. "Who else?" William stared at him. His face showed absolutely no hint that he knew how inappropriate his question was.

"I don't know that I've noticed," William replied tightly. He felt heat rise on his neck. "They're just my employer's daughters, sir."

"Come on, don't call me sir," Branson admonished him cheerfully. "I'm what, two years older than you? Three maybe?"

"A chauffeur's rank is higher than a footman's, Mr. Branson." Branson crossed his arms and frowned at William.

"So you really believe in all that, do you? Huh."

When he got a chance, William stopped to talk to Gwen the next evening, and inquired whether she thought Branson was quite…_nice. _

"Nice?" she gave him a strange look. "Sure, he's nice enough. Just don't get him started on politics or he won't stop until he's bored you into an early grave!"

"Only… he made a comment about the Crawley girls last night. He said they were… pretty."

"Well, William," Gwen smiled at him as though he were a very young boy. "They _are_ pretty."

"Maybe, but they're still ladies, and we're their employees! It doesn't seem right. And anyway, they're never as pretty as -" He broke off, embarrassed.

"Daisy?" Gwen said kindly. "I know. I wouldn't worry, William. Mr. Branson just sees the world differently from the rest of us, that's all. It's a bit like… in fact, it's exactly like…" Suddenly she came over distracted, even slightly nervous.

"Like what?" William prompted. She shook herself.

"Oh, sorry, it's nothing," she replied. "Just had a funny thought. You know, Lady Sybil asked me to bring her… something, earlier. I should be… going." She gave him a little pat on the cheek and strode away through the kitchen. Gwen was an odd girl. Sometimes William didn't think she quite saw the world the way rest of them did either.


	11. English

_Seventeen, seventeen – he is – _was_ – seventeen. Anything is possible at seventeen, anything – except dying. _Branson closed the door to his cottage with shaking hands. All day, his English employers, their English house, their English servants, their bloody English accents – he'd been more homesick than ever. When he closed his eyes he could see Ireland behind the lids, green, lush and beautiful, with the farms and the villages and the people, and the soldiers. The soldiers, and the fear, and young Cousin Allen - young _dead_ Cousin Allen.

"_I know we weren't at our best in Ireland –" _

"_Not at your best?" How could she, how could she not know? How could she not understand? Could she love him at all, knowing what she did not know?_

Damn her, damn her and her English naïveté. Damn him and his English obsession. He could be with his family now, he might be fighting for his home and for freedom, and he was stuck here, waiting, always, always waiting. Branson tore off his jacket and tossed it violently onto his desk, where it knocked to the ground a small, inconspicuous package. He stopped and stared at it. It was wrapped carefully in brown paper and twine, with a large square of parchment attached. He scooped it up and only had to look the handwriting on the letter to know exactly who it was from.

_My dear Branson – _his traitorous heart thumped -

_Even though I'm a nurse now, I've so very little experience with real loss. I don't quite know what to say, except that I wish you would help me understand. We are friends, and you say more – perhaps. Tell me of Ireland, of your cousin, and I promise I'll listen. Whatever trust you want from me, you must be willing to give it in return. But, since you are currently most understandably cross with me, I will not seek you out, and will leave you only with that message, and a piece of a cake I baked for the soldiers today. Sometimes chocolate can say what words can't. I do hope it tastes good, they told me it was delicious, but as my baking skills are still rudimentary at best, they may have said that only for my benefit._

_Yours always _ - again the treacherous leap in his chest-

_Sybil _

Branson tucked the letter into his pocket, to keep if only for her _my dear _and her _yours always, _and unwrapped the paper package. It did indeed contain a slice of moist-looking chocolate cake. He took a large bite, and spat it out almost immediately. It was awful, tasting as if she'd added three times the amount of salt and forgotten butter entirely. He started laughing, harder and harder until eventually he sat down on the floor and wept.

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><p><em>AN: Allen was legitimately the first name I thought of when I thought of Ireland. Somebody's getting far too obsessed..._


	12. Waiting

Sybil's ankles were swollen. She was seated on the sofa with her legs propped up on several pillows, clutching a mug of tea close to her chest like a talisman. She was waiting. Had been waiting. It was past ten now, and he should have been home by seven. She breathed deeply, calmingly, and tried not to imagine him lying somewhere in a dark, dingy Dublin alleyway, cold and abandoned as the untouched supper on her kitchen table.

Suddenly the door crashed open. Tom stumbled in, blood streaming from his forehead. He was struggling to support a deathly pale, fair-haired man who seemed barely conscious. Sybil leapt up, spilling tea all over the carpet.

"Sybil, no," Tom ordered. "It's a cut… just a cut. Dan's worse – been knifed. Don't – get excited - " Too late. She was already at his side and expertly maneuvering Dan to the sofa she'd just vacated. As soon as he was settled she tore off her apron and ran at Tom, pressing the cloth to his forehead and her lips to his insistently. He kissed her back as hard as he could, then broke away panting.

"I need…"

"You need to sit down," she told him firmly, "and keep pressure on your head." Her face drawn, she dashed into the kitchen and returned with an armful of dishtowels and a pair of scissors. She carefully cut away Dan's crimson-stained shirt, revealing a ugly, wet gash in the man's side. He moaned weakly as she began tightly wrapping the wound in her dishtowels.

"What happened?" she asked Tom, alarmed at how high-pitched she sounded. She could not be afraid; she had known what she was getting into.

"Black and Tans," he replied. "The office… they attacked us. They were trying to bully Mr. O'Shea to stop printing, guess we'd been getting too outspoken…_oh._" he stopped and winced in sudden pain.

"Shh, don't worry," Sybil finished bandaging Dan and moved to replace Tom's wadded-up apron with another towel. She could tell it was more than a cut. He had a black eye forming and showed signs of concussion. "Dan's wound isn't deep. Once the bleeding's gone down I'll have to clean it to keep out infection but aside from that he'll be just fine."

"Thank God," Tom said. "Sybil, they just barged in, yelling, and when we said we weren't going to stop publishing, one of them – I suppose he just lost it. Hit Mr. O'Shea over the head with the barrel of his gun. Might've killed him, I don't know – it all happened so fast after that." She sat down beside him, feeling the heat from his body and reassuring herself that he was alive, he was safe – for now.

"We should get a message to Maeve, she'll need to know her husband's hurt and spending the night with us – Tom?" He had fallen heavily against her, eyes closing.

"Tom? _Tom! _Wake up, you have to wake up-!" Panicking, she seized his face and shook it. He blinked rapidly, and woozily batted at her hands.

"Love, love, I'm alright, I'm awake!" Sybil groaned in relief. She rubbed her slightly protruding stomach protectively.

"This is only going to get worse, isn't it," she said, struggling to settle her quavering voice. "And we'll be right in the thick of things." Tom leaned into her and slid his palm along her body to cup the underside of her belly.

"You shouldn't think so much on it," he told her, "I don't want you getting sick now, of all times."

"The baby and I will be perfectly fine, unless we have to get along without you."

"I'll never let that happen."

"But you don't have that much control over it, do you? I would never ask you to keep out of the fighting," she reached out to touch his cheek, "and you wouldn't be the man I love if you didn't care so much. I only wish… I wish sometimes I didn't rely on you so wholly for my happiness." She smiled slightly. Tom looked concerned.

"Sybil," he said seriously, "do you ever regret this? I mean, us? Ireland?"

"Well, I doubt Mama ever worries Papa will survive his day at work," she sighed. Dan gave another low whimper from the sofa, and Sybil sprang up immediately to tend him, ignoring her husband's feeble protests to be careful of the baby.

"But no," she said after a while, turning back to Tom. "I never regret it. Not once. Not ever."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry for the abundance of author's notes! But just in case anyone was curious, Black and Tans, along with Auxiliaries (Royal Irish Constabulary) were essentially fairly thuggish police forces in Ireland around the Anglo-Irish War (1919-1921)_. _Black and Tans were accused of brutality against Irish people by the IRA_ _and yeah, they were nasty, mostly composed of frustrated WW1 vets. That is a really simplistic explanation, sorry. Just wanted to highlight the fact that journalists on both sides of the conflict tended to be major targets, putting Branson in BIG DANGER ALL THE TIME. *pulls covers over head and sobs*_


	13. Stoicism

"She would have left anyway, you know." Mary spoke first, her voice echoing in the cold twilight. They were huddled in the empty, darkening station where their youngest sister had recently stood, until she boarded a train for Liverpool with her fiancé. In the morning, a boat would ferry them to Ireland, and then Sybil would really be gone, maybe forever. Edith shrugged dispiritedly.

"Would she? Even without him?"

"Naturally." Mary scoffed. "If it wasn't Ireland, it would have been France or Belgium for the refugees, or America for women's liberation, or London for social reform. He didn't start her rebellion." Edith raised an eyebrow.

"He certainly didn't do anything to stop it, did he." Their conversation was stilted and awkward without their usual buffer to soften it. They didn't even have the benefit of their mutual bitterness and anger to fall back on. Right now, all either of them could feel was bereavement, watching the only person who'd loved them both equally, unconditionally, and without comparison glide away, stolen from them by a_ man_, of all people.

"I suppose we ought to be jealous," Mary said. "The two of us, all the advantages we have, and our little sister is the first to wed."

"You once told me I didn't have any advantages," Edith reminded her.

"I say a great many things, and you need to learn to forget more of them." Both sisters stared straight ahead, never even glancing at each other.

"Well," Edith began. "They'll be happy, at least we can say that for the marriage."

"Happy?" Came the haughty reply. "They'll be common."

"They're in love, Mary." Mary did not answer right away. Then she said quietly,

"Yes. I think perhaps they are." Sybil's smiles were proof enough of that.

"Edith?"

"Mm?"

"I wonder if you would hold my hand." Edith turned and saw her sister stiffly offering her a pale hand, palm up and open. Lightly, warily, she interlocked Mary's icy fingers with her own, and tried very hard not to care about the freckles that contrasted so unbecomingly with the smooth ivory. Mary's eyes were very bright and her chin trembled, but she did not cry as they walked towards home. Perhaps the two of them, so often silent and detached, were beginning to realize they had more in common than they believed. At any rate, they both knew they were desperately going to miss their baby sister.

* * *

><p><em>AN: These last few chapters have been kind of angsty, which makes_ me_ feel angsty,__ so I'm going to try and pause and write something more cheerful. May be a while before the next update, sorry!_


	14. Kisses Part 1

_A/N: So this was going to be humorous and delightfully coming-of-age awkward, but my keyboard ran away from me and it went all tragic at the end. Oh well, this is Downton Abbey we're talking about. _

* * *

><p>She didn't know her first kiss very well. His name was Albert, and he was the son of one of Aunt Rosamund's friends. She'd danced with him twice at her coming out ball, and once more after that. He was unremarkable, with rather colorless features, and lanky arms and legs. But he listened to her, asked her about politics, and looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe his luck. Abstractly she knew she was pretty, that men liked her soft figure and full lips; seeing it reflected in an actual boy's face felt very real and overwhelming.<p>

One evening he'd found her sitting alone as a party wound down. They were making small, pleasant conversation, and then without warning or preamble he burst out nervously,

"Lady Sybil, I wonder if I could kiss you?"

Sybil was taken aback. No one taught you the etiquette of kissing. Did you have to love the man? What if you were only curious, and he was friendly and non-threatening? Or you felt a strange stirring in your stomach that you didn't really understand? After a second, she nodded, and slowly closed her eyes.

His lips were thin and wet, and it wasn't long before Sybil felt the bubbly feeling in her stomach fizzle out. She tried to press her lips to his harder, wrapping her hands around his neck, worried she wasn't doing it right, but this was evidently wrong. He took it as an invitation and unpleasantly pushed the tip of his tongue against her closed mouth. Finally he pulled away.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly, eyes shining. "Might we try that again another time?" Sybil gulped, helpless.

"Um," she managed, "I don't think so. I'm sorry." Then she bolted. That night she decided she would never again kiss anyone she wasn't sure about. She never did - never could: not three months after her first kiss the war began. Someone told her years later that Albert didn't even make it through the end of 1914.


	15. Kisses Part 2

_A/N: This is easily the longest piece I've written, and it was also written at about 2 in the morning which accounts for the style errors. __I just love writing Jealous Sybil, because I mean however devoted he seems, Branson's really good-looking and clearly not inexperienced in the land of women, whereas Sybil has little to no experience in that department. So it makes sense that she'd get jealous after a while._

* * *

><p>Tom Branson's first kiss was a girl called Siobhan O'Leary. He was fifteen and frightfully bookish, albeit with ever-broadening shoulders and his father's strong jaw. He'd had a vague idea of avoiding girls entirely, living ascetically and heroically, complete devoted to learning and work. That is, until Siobhan decided she wanted him. She was redheaded, witty, and absolutely certain of herself and her charms. His mother said she was trash, but they got on very well for nearly a whole month until Siobhan elected to drop him for tall, smirking Kevin Doyle down the road. That stung a bit, but he met his fair share of other girls through the years. Somehow he knew they had all been lovely: fiery, intelligent, kind. But he couldn't quite bring any of their faces to mind again after a few months at Downton.<p>

He'd only kissed one woman since meeting Sybil (and she'd been Sybil in his head for years now, silken and sweet without her interfering title).

Ethel's mischievous smile and red hair reminded him of Siobhan in a way Gwen, for some reason, never had. They became friendly, at first. Both had dreams that were unexplainable, unspeakable to the rest of the staff. He was so head over heels for Sybil by that point that he didn't notice her flirting in the slightest until one day he found himself walking towards the garage with the housemaid inexplicably close at his heels.

"Er, was there something you needed, Ethel?" She grinned and shook her head.

"No. Just thought I'd like to see the motor, if I could. Never properly looked at one up close before." He suddenly realized what she was trying to do, and shoved his hands in his pockets uncomfortably.

"I don't know that –"

"Oh, one time, Mr. Branson?" She pleaded adorably, and the unconscionable part of his brain said, _you are her only friend. Have some pity on the lass, what's the worst that happens?_ He relented, and not four steps into the building she had him pressed up against the Renault. _This, _he thought. _This is the worst that happens. _It was nicer than he liked to admit; she knew exactly what she was doing and quite honestly it had been a while. But all he could think about was how much he wished it was someone else kissing him against that car door. He pushed her off gently.

"Ethel, don't." She rested her hands on his chest.

"I thought you liked me."

"I do – look – not like this," he squirmed, unwilling to shove her away but wanting to flee desperately. "Why don't we just stay friends?" Ethel pursed her lips, and fiddled with a button on his jacket.

"I don't need your pity," she said coolly. "Don't presume I like you so much."

"That isn't what I mean -"

"Ethel?" A tremulous voice spoke from the garage door, and his heart sank into his shoes. Ethel leapt away from him and curtsied towards Lady Sybil.

"Yes, milady?"

"Mrs. Hughes was looking for you," she said, in a very small voice. "To help set up for tea."

"Of course." Ethel was off without a backwards glance. Sybil and Tom started speaking at once.

"Sybil, nothing happened, I promise -"

"I only came to tell you about the paper today but since you are obviously otherwise engaged -" They stopped and Sybil gave an exasperated little sigh.

"You shouldn't call me Sybil." Branson scuffed his toes on the ground crossly.

"It's too early for tea," he said. "She's new so she wouldn't know that but it is." Sybil's chin lifted, and for a moment she appeared every bit the aristocrat.

"I don't know what you mean. Look, Branson, any sort of relationship-"

"There isn't one!"

"-_any sort of relationship_ you may or may not have with Ethel, well... we are only - political allies, you might say." She gritted her teeth and attempted a smile. "It really isn't any of my business."

"It could be." He hadn't meant to say that. His desperation to prove himself innocent got the better of him and he instantly regretted it. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Could be what?" He flinched, hesitated, and replied helplessly,

"Your business." Sybil said nothing. She looked hurt and a little frightened and certainly angry, but all she did was glare at a wrinkle in her skirt and furiously try to smooth it down.

"Ethel and I are only friends," Branson said firmly. "Nothing happened."

"I believe you." He knew she must have, because she came back a few days later and it was as though nothing _had_ happened. But the expression on her face hurt him so badly he thought he'd settled on confessing his feelings right then and there. He swore he would tell her, just so she would know, she could be sure that it was always her, and she never had to look that way again.


	16. Mother

"Are you expecting me to be happy for you?" Mrs. Colleen Branson faced down her determined, although admittedly terrified, son with arms akimbo and a baleful eye.

"Well, yes," Tom replied. "I was a bit. It isn't every day your only son meets the love of his life and decides to marry her."

"Aye, good answer, Tommy!" cried his sister Becky, now Becky Byrne. She and Molly, now a Whelan, sat watching the scene in the little kitchen, munching biscuits and thoroughly enjoying themselves. He absolutely hated the both of them.

"I'll thank you two to keep well out of this!" Mrs. Branson said. "And you're not 'marrying the love of your life.' This is no church wedding, with the banns going up and your family meeting the bride and planning a ceremony – no! You were eloping with the youngest daughter of some English peer to Gretna Green like I raised you no better!"

"We're not doing that _anymore_," Tom sighed, exasperated. "She talked me out of it-" Molly guffawed.

"You let someone talk you out of doing something pigheaded? That's a first."

"-and don't make it sound like I've seduced some poor innocent rich girl, she's smart, she knows her own mind, and we've both taken a long time to make this decision."

"Oh, _really_?" his mother said. "So what are the grand plans you've made with your intelligent, liberated girl? I mean, after you've whisked her away from her gilded cage? You don't even have a flat in Dublin yet; you're living with your sister and you want to bring a privileged wife into that?"

"I hardly spent five years in England lazing about," he retorted. "I've got savings, and I won't be living with Becky and Connor forever –"

"No?" Becky interrupted. "That's the best news I've heard so far."

"- yeah, very clever, Becky. I thought…" he faltered. "I thought maybe she could stay with you, Mam. Until everything's settled. 'Course I was hoping she'd be welcomed."

"With me?"

"Ah, you were so close, Tom," Molly muttered, shaking her head. Mrs. Branson looked scandalized.

"An English girl? In _my house_? Are you being serious? With your father being who he was – what would he think?" She sank into another chair next to her daughters and put her face in her hands. Tom felt that docility was the best position to take in this situation. He knelt beside her, feeling for all the world like it was his mother he was proposing to, and not Sybil. At the moment that particular task seemed easier than this one was proving to be.

"He'd have liked her," he said softly. "Dad would've loved her. She's beautiful, and clever, and she has opinions. She wants votes for women and equal opportunity for jobs. And she even wants Irish independence, and she supports me working for it."

"Then she's a fool," Mrs. Branson snapped, her palms smacking the table with a force that made everyone jump. "A foolish girl who's never seen the world outside of Yorkshire. And you're just as bad." She marched from the room, barreling past her son's kneeling figure. They heard a door slam from the other side of the house.

"Well," Becky said. "That probably didn't go as well as you'd hoped." Tom looked at them. They were peculiarly grave. He stood.

"Am I a fool?" he asked. "Is it idiotic to try and make this marriage work?" His sisters looked at each other and sighed. Molly slid a biscuit across the table at him. He ignored it, waiting for their answer.

"I don't know," Molly said, taking the biscuit back and breaking it up in her hands contemplatively. "If she's what you say she is, then it's possible. But it'll be strange – a posh English girl in _our_ family?" The three of them avoided each other's eyes for several uneasy moments. Then Becky said, with a slight chuckle,

"Of course we're glad, though – always a bit up or down whether any woman would have you." The tension in the room dissipated as they laughed, and Molly smiled at her brother.

"You're twenty-eight now, Tommy," she said, looking a little friendly and a little forlorn. "You have to make your own choices and stop listening to Becky and Mam and me."

"Shh!" Becky interrupted, "I think I hear footsteps."

"What's her name?" Mrs. Branson reappeared at the kitchen door suddenly, one hand clutching the frame and the other rubbing her forehead. Tom grinned.

"Sybil, Mam," he breathed. "Her name's Sybil." She only snorted.

"Very posh name," she said dryly. "And no doubt she's a heathen, don't know what we're going to do about that…" His grin grew mischievous.

"If you mean she's Anglican," he said. "I suppose we'll just have to get married in the Church of England down on Kilpatrick Street, eh?" Becky choked on her fourth biscuit and Molly's jaw dropped. Mrs. Branson turned vaguely the color of radishes.

"Church of…" she gasped in horror, and reeled away from the door, stumbling out of their view while clutching at her heart. Tom laughed.

"No, I'm only kidding," he said. "Kidding, I promise. It's alright, come back – Mam? ... Mam?"


	17. Approval

_A/N: __This takes place just after the funeral. I think OOC Violet, I rarely write her (the writers do it brilliantly enough), and she was mainly just a vehicle_ _for my probably very AU Mary/Matthew moment here. _

* * *

><p>Violet Did Not Approve of The Situation. She sneered down from the parlor window at the sight of Sybil strolling around the garden, bold as you please, with her chauffeur fiancé. Or journalist, or whatever. It hardly mattered, as she Did Not Approve of either profession.<p>

She was not secretly pleased that this girl - this woman - had faced down a social order for love. Love was a folly, of course; and it did not appeal to her long-dormant romantic side, that the pair could be so content with nothing but each other and Robert's acquiescence. Subversion of the social class would _never_ work, and she certainly harbored no suspicions that it might make her youngest granddaughter happier than anyone else in the estate.

She felt no grudging satisfaction at the devotion and respect in the looks Branson gave Sybil. She did not give an indulgent smile at the way Sybil was tucked so indecently into his side. Much more proper the way Mary and Carlisle stood as they walked up the driveway. Connected loosely at the elbows, staring ahead, Mary's face frozen and Carlisle's hideously smug. Yes… proper.

Something drastic was obviously in order. And, as always, it would be up to her to do it.

Violet met Carlisle and Mary at the door carrying all the regal bearing of Boudicca, Elizabeth, and Victoria combined. Her cane clicked impressively with each step.

"Mary," she addressed her granddaughter. "I must speak with you, immediately." Carlisle looked faintly disarmed, but he recovered slickly, removing his hand from Mary's arm and extending it to her.

"My dear Lady Violet –" he began.

"I was not talking to you," Violet interrupted with supreme disdain. "And I believe you may call me Dowager Countess. Mary, if you would accompany me to the library?" She refused to acknowledge his responsive sneer. Mary, utterly wordless, led her grandmother into the library.

"Granny, what on earth?" Mary asked tensely.

"Excellent, now we're alone I can say what I will. And what I will say is that it is high time you and Matthew got your act together!"

"Excuse me?" Mary gaped, grasping out for a chair arm to support her.

"You heard me," Violet replied serenely. "Your sister was a sight to be seen this week; it was a level of zeal I would not have expected of Sybil. But you, on the other hand," she met her granddaughter's eyes squarely, "you have always been a fighter. And I cannot comprehend why _now,_ of all times, you have stopped fighting for something so important as your own marriage." Mary turned and gazed out the window. Violet noticed her eyes lingering slightly on her little sister and Branson, nestled on a stone bench near the roses.

"You know why I must marry Richard," Mary answered coolly. Violet huffed in displeasure.

"Oh, hang the story! Hang Mr. Pamuk! Hang the lot of it! We've got bigger scandals on our hands now!"

"If I am a fighter," Mary said stiffly, "then I am, above all, the kind of fighter who knows when she is beaten."

"Why? Why are you beaten?" Violet pressed. _A few chisels here and there and the marble will crack,_ she thought. "Because you have given up? Because Matthew won't allow himself to love you? Is that reason enough to trap yourself in a loveless marriage to that odious man? Because – "

"Because either way I am lost!" Mary broke; she spun around to face her grandmother with the potency of despair in her voice. "Either way I am losing my own person! If I marry Carlisle, he possesses me; he desires me as an object in his collection. I shall be his. And if I do not," she sucked in a deep breath, and went on, "then I resign myself to a pointless life as Matthew's, only Matthew's because I could never even look at anyone else. And I think, perhaps, that I'd rather be settled as the jewel in someone's crown than pine my life away without purpose." She finished this speech with a defiant glare at Violet, who kept her expression constant except for the slight elevation of a single eyebrow.

"You sound," she said severely, "like the heroine of one of those horrid romance novels Edith is so fond of." Mary groaned and rolled her eyes, falling back against a bookshelf weakly.

"Good God, would a little sympathy now and then kill you?"

"No," Violet replied. "But it might very well do you. You've wasted far too much sympathy on yourself already. My dear, there is not much time left."

"Granny-"

"I am in earnest! I am an old, infirm woman - "

"Oh, _Granny - _" Violet rapped her cane for silence.

"And I would like to see my granddaughters happy before I die! Which could be very soon. It is all up to the Lord, naturally." She lifted her palms heavenwards in melodramatic piety. Mary shook her head, massaging her temples with two long fingers.

"That's all you've ever wanted, Granny," she said, half-mocking and half-affectionate, "to see us happy." Violet was embarrassed at being caught out with such a sentimental notion.

"Well," she said gruffly. "I suppose I should've preferred riches and three sizable peerages." Mary smiled in spite of herself. Quite unable to leave without the last word, Violet rang for the footman, and, allotting appropriate time for effect, said kindly,

"Think it over, dear. That is all I ask."


	18. Beginning

Sybil stood slightly apart from her family. She supposed that that was something she'd have to get used to, now, and steeled herself. She hadn't known Lavinia well, anyway. To everyone's surprise, it had been Mary who'd truly befriended the woman who was to be her replacement. But she knew about brushing that lovely red hair from a feverish forehead, about collecting buckets of sick from a person you respected, and about racing through corridors that seemed endless to reach Matthew because Lavinia was dying, she couldn't breathe and Matthew had to see her. And Sybil wanted to curl up in her mother's arms like a child again.

She nearly jumped when she felt someone put a hand on her waist. But it was only Tom, and she gave a cry of relief.

"Oh, thank God," she said, letting her head drop on his shoulder.

"How are you?" he asked, worry bursting out of every syllable. "How's her Ladyship? And Mr. Matthew?"

"Bearing up," she replied, looking across at them. Edith held Cora's arm tightly in her own, and it seemed only an affectionate gesture to most people watching. Sybil knew that arm was probably the only thing keeping her mother upright. Matthew, on the other hand, stood straighter than he had in months, pale and unyielding, a cruel set to his jaw. Mary, despite Carlisle's close proximity, couldn't keep her eyes off him. There was pure agony in her face.

"Mary is distraught," Sybil said, almost to herself.

"Why?" Tom asked. He was unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice, and Sybil's head shot up angrily.

"That's terribly thoughtless of you," she said coldly.

"I only thought – well, they were rivals, weren't they?"

"Please, Tom; you may know more of life than I do, but sometimes I think you know very little about love." She sighed.

"Not that it's any of our business, but the thing about Lavinia was that she was so… nice. So very sweet. I think she may have been one of the only true female friends Mary has ever had." Tom swallowed, looking ashamed.

"Love, I'm sorry," he said. "I was out of line, there." Sybil felt a little shiver down her spine, unused to his pet names and still in awe of his adoration.

"Yes, you were," she said, and seizing the front of his jacket she burrowed her face in his chest, "but I'm so glad you're here." Was it wrong, to be in love, to be so happy, when Lavinia was dead, Matthew broken, and Mary suffering? She lifted her tired eyes to meet the blue fire of his.

"This place kills good people," she said. "The purest among us. First William, now Lavinia -"

"It hasn't taken you," he interrupted. Sybil laughed mirthlessly, releasing him and taking a step back.

"And what does that say about me?"

"If you're not good," Tom said, husky and passionate, "then there's nothing good in this world." Sybil could say nothing to that, throat choked with unidentifiable emotion. She felt like collapsing and crying and screaming with joy all at once.

"I love you," she said. He smiled, and she realized she'd never actually said it in so many words before.

"I love you, too." They stared, drinking each other in, hopelessly, horribly happy, dreaming of a new beginning in the middle of the worst kind of end.


End file.
